The Colour of Light Part VII
by oleanderhoney
Summary: Moriarty has run aground. Meanwhile, there is a scandal brewing, and Sherlock's past comes back to haunt him. A retelling of ASiB in which John Watson, is in fact, Jane Watson.
1. A Purple Shirt, and Minced Words

**AN: Oh my goodness you guys I have been remiss with the updates! My sincerest apologies. Ff and I have a love hate relationship atm, but that IS NO EXCUSE FOR MY NEGLIGENCE. So. To make it up, I have back to back chapters, as well as an update in 'Afters' all at once for you loyal readers. I love each and every one of you, and without further ado, I present you with more Jane and Sherlock.**

**PS: I should probably mention that I do not own Sherlock or its affiliate characters from the BBC and rights are reserved to the almighty Mofftiss, amen.**

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**Fraud, Scandal, and Farce**

It was _purple._

Not just any purple, though. No, it was the colour of dusk upon the moors; the corona of the sun through a haze of wood smoke; the taste of the last dregs of whiskey at the bottom of a shot glass; a shade lighter than aubergine but darker than violet. It looked like jazz sounded — svelte and sultry like bassoon, and under the right light, it moved in a way that reminded her of ice slowly melting in a tumbler made of crystal. In a word; the shirt was Sherlock personified. When she looks at the price tag, she's not surprised in the slightest by how obnoxiously expensive it is; and the sheer audacity proves her point even further.

It is for precisely these reasons why Jane plucks it off the rack at Liberty's and heads for the checkout.

Granted, _Dolce and Gabbana_ was a bit out of her price range, but from the moment she saw it in the shop window, she knew she couldn't _not_get it.

The simple fact that her brain suddenly decided to remember how to process the bloody colour purple now of all times was practically clandestine, especially with Christmas around the corner. That, and the fact she felt particularly awful about accidentally ruining his favourite pearl-grey one on account a pair of her…more colourful underwear ended up stowing away in the wash, irrevocably staining the expensive fabric with streaks of (what she assumed were) pink given the look of horror on Sherlock's face. At first she didn't know what the problem was, her partial colour blindness preventing her from really seeing the damage, but when Sherlock pulled the culprit free of the drum and showed her the incriminating 'Monday' stamped on the rear, she knew exactly what had happened seeing as how this particular pair of pants was indeed **bright red.**

Just thinking about it makes her chuckle to herself, and in good spirits she pulls out her wallet.

"Do you gift wrap?" she asks the store clerk cheerily.

"Of course. It's complimentary with purchase," the woman behind the counter says, and gestures to two rolls of paper behind her. "Christmas trees, or reindeer?"

She goes to answer, but stops when something catches her eye.

There, atop a pillar across from her, a security camera is mounted. One which she could have sworn was pointing the opposite direction only a moment ago.

Her good mood curdles, and she purses her lips. _Bloody Mycroft._

The camera blinks and adjusts more squarely on her position, and she has to actively refrain from flipping it off.

"Miss?" the shop clerk says, snapping her back to the present. "Do you have a preference?" She indicates the paper again.

"Er…trees, I guess. That's fine," she says with a strained smile.

After the shirt is boxed up and wrapped, she makes her way out of Liberty's, scowling when she catches the camera tracking her in her peripheral.

She turns left instead of right, ducking into an obscure alley to try an avoid the All Seeing Eye of the insufferable British Government, and smiles to herself when she pops out onto a lesser known road. If what Sherlock taught her was correct, she only had to travel five blocks west before she reached a main road where she could hopefully hail a cab.

She only makes it three however, when a familiar black car with tinted windows pulls up along side her.

Jane grits her teeth, but otherwise keeps walking.

The window rolls down, and she nearly snarls, "You can tell your boss to _piss off!"_

"Now, now, Jane. Let's be reasonable. I merely intend on giving you a ride back to your flat," the man himself calls from the car. This makes her stop in her tracks, momentarily surprised it was actually Mycroft and not his PA, Athos, or whatever he was calling himself these days.

"What, no warehouse? Abandoned factory?" Jane says wryly.

"I'm afraid I do not have time for our normal rendezvous," Mycroft says with a blasé wave of his hand. He doesn't even look up from the file in his lap when he pops the door open for her. "Now if you would be so kind…"

"I think not, Mycroft," Jane says and straightens up to her full height, planning on marching away.

"I wouldn't require this if you would've only agreed to meet me at my office like I had first requested."

"More like threatened," Jane says, lip curling back into a sneer of disdain. She does get into the car, however, seeing as how it was likely he wouldn't bloody stop until she complied. She closes the door, and Mycroft raps on the glass partition. The car takes off down the road, and Jane crosses her arms defensively in front of her chest, not deigning to look at Mycroft sat next to her.

"Doing some Christmas shopping?" Mycroft says in his insouciant tones. He prods the carrier bag at her feet with the tip of his umbrella. Jane wrinkles her nose.

"I highly doubt you abducted me for idle small talk, Mycroft," she says. "Get to the point, or let me out."

"I can see you have been picking up on my brother's recalcitrance. How delightful," he says sourly. "How is the leg healing up?"

"Fine. Haven't needed the cane in weeks. Sherlock's also fine, by the way," she clips.

"Yes, I assumed so."

"Really? Because your radio silence, although refreshing, is a bit ill-timed given the fact your brother was nearly blown to bits by a madman with a disturbing hard-on for him." Jane can feel her face heat along with her boiling temper. There was always something about Mycroft that shortened her fuse.

"He is, as you say, fine," Mycroft replies with a caviler shrug.

"You've been gone for months! Of all the times you've interfered with his life, why stop now especially when he needs you the most?"

He fixes her with a mildly amused look. One that says, _'Aren't you one to talk?'_ It causes a hard lump of something unpleasant to settle in the pit of her stomach.

"That was different," she says weakly in response to his knowing expression.

"Was it, now? Because from where I am sitting, it looks like a veritable exit strategy," he says, lips thinning into a false grin.

"What are you talking about?" Jane says, raising her chin.

"Your record when it comes to emotional entanglements, romantic or otherwise, has been less than stellar," Mycroft says, sharp eyes boring into her.

Jane has to close her eyes in order to get a handle on her temper. "Mycroft…I swear to god. If you are poking around in my private therapy sessions again…"

"Trust issues," he says stridently, pulling out that hateful, _hateful_ steno pad of his. "pesky things, aren't they? The problem is, they end up taking everybody down with the ship in the end. Wouldn't you agree? Best get out now while you can."

"Listen," she barks, finger jabbing in his direction. "Sherlock isn't an _'entanglement'_ to me. He is much, much more than that, and if you could only open your eyes for a change, you would realise that the reason I left in the fist place was because I lo —"

_"Don't say it,"_ he says, snapping the pad shut. His eyes are livid with anger even through the rest of him remains the picture of regal composure. It's actually quite terrifying, and she is reminded of the fact that this isn't just her best friend's overbearing brother, but in fact, one of the most powerful men in England and can probably have her disappeared six ways to Sunday. It's enough to startle her out of her tirade.

"You mistake me," he starts again, tone as smooth as silk with a deceptive cutting-edge that makes her spine rigid and holds her to attention, "I am well aware of what my brother means to you, Dr. Watson, and under any other circumstances your fealty and devotion would be admirable."

"But?" she says, an iciness cresting over her. She doesn't like where this is headed one bit, and she attempts to brace herself.

"But these are not the normal circumstances," he says. "Simply put: I agree that you leaving like you did was for the best for all involved. What I don't agree with is the fact that you came back." The admission is like the blow of a hammer.

"I'm sorry, what? You _want_ me to leave?" Jane says aghast. She was certain she was headed for the Obligatory Elder Brother Chat. This was…unexpected, and actually rather ludicrous.

"Like I said, you've managed to tear the plaster off in one go so to speak, and now that this ridiculous co-dependency between you two has lessened in its intensity, you both can get on with your separate lives."

"Co-dependency?" Jane says dumbly. She can do nothing but repeat him as the horror of his words penetrate her. Apparently she wasn't mishearing him, and the reality of what he was saying makes her cold. God, he was _serious._ If there was anyone who could render her and Sherlock apart, it would be Mycroft Holmes.

"He gave you a reason to cope when you got back from the war, and in turn you distracted him from his more…recreational activities. For that you have my utmost gratitude. But there is a season for everything, as they say, and I am afraid your partnership with Sherlock Holmes is drawing to a close," Mycroft continues on in that aggravating business-like tone. It's becoming hard to breathe in the car, and Jane's head starts spinning.

"This isn't some transaction between us, Mycroft. It doesn't work like that," she says tightly.

"Oh? Did you really think you and Sherlock would carry on they way you are indefinitely?" Jane presses her lips into a thin line, her silence as loud as any answer, and Mycroft smirks. "Come now, dear girl. This is my brother we are talking about. You are the type to want to settle down eventually. Once this perverse addiction for danger runs its course, you will inevitably seek out some form of stability. Sherlock will never be able to give you what you want in the end."

"You have no idea what I want," she says, gaining a little of her courage back. It was always difficult to keep her footing with the Holmeses, given the fact they were able to see right through you like water at a moments glance. But for the first time, Mycroft was dead wrong about her, and it was bloody refreshing. "You think you have me pegged, but you couldn't be farther from the mark. Where is all of this coming from anyway? Not too long ago you were trying to pay me in order to get close to him, now you're what? Threatening me so I will leave? What's going on, and for the love of god, be direct. I have no bloody patience for your minced words and bloody mental chess."

Mycroft scrutinises her with a lilt of his eyebrows, reading the tenacity of her posture, and the challenge in her eye.

"Very well," he says, the amused smirk fading into something dangerous. He takes a short breath and unleashes a torrent, double barrels loaded. "You, Jane Watson, are a danger to him, plain and simple; a weak point serving only to be manipulated in order to force Sherlock's hand. You want to know where I've been? I've been trying to clean up the mess you've created, and in doing so I've owed people _favours._ It's because of you that Sherlock's future is no longer secure despite all I've done to make it so."

"My fault?" she says, gritting her teeth. "How do you figure?"

"You've single handedly done what no one has been able to, and have infected the core of him like one would if they were a virus." The words are like a slap to the face, and she blinks her astonishment. Mycroft presses on. "Furthermore, you've pried off his armour, and have left him to the destruction of others as well as himself, and this. _This._ Is what is the most dangerous of all. There have been many times where he has been right on the verge of destroying himself, and if you continue on, you will be actively giving him a tangible catalyst to self-implode if this thing between you doesn't work." He pulls a breath in through his nose, checking himself. This was as emotional as Jane had ever seen him, and she would probably be more concerned if she weren't so blisteringly angry. He parts his lips in a moue of distaste, his diatribe simmering under a veil of barely contained antipathy.

"There was once a time where I thought you could be the making of my brother, but in light of recent events, I am convinced you make him worse than ever. And if you genuinely _care,"_ he spits the word out as if it were something foul, "for him, then this wouldn't come as a surprise to you, and you would do as I ask and leave him now before it becomes even more impossible for you both."

Silence resounds between them, and Jane's heart clatters against her breast bone as her rage winds itself tight around her spine. She has to focus on breathing so she doesn't succumb to the violence waiting to be unleashed within her.

_How dare he? How_ dare _he?_

"Jesus. No wonder he thinks he's a sociopath. _You_ taught him to embrace the fact!" she says, shaking.

"I taught him how to keep himself safe," Mycroft corrects in razor tones. "And now there is only one thing threatening all I've done to keep my brother out of the proverbial fire, and it happens to be you."

"Why all this, then?" she says, a realisation hitting her. "Why not just have me 'relocated?'" Mycroft's gaze slithers away at this, a minor tell, and he stares at the partition in front of him. "Oh. I see. You can't just get rid of me because then it would be _your_ fault and Sherlock would never forgive you. That's why you are asking me to do it."

"If you are capable of setting aside your baser emotions, you would agree that this is the most tactical solution."

"Bollocks! Don't give me that shite about tactical solutions and exit strategies. Christ! No wonder he can't stand the sight of you!" she exclaims.

"Yes well, when one is busy running the country, one does not have time to entertain notions of fostering brotherly love. Especially if one is too busy looking out for those with an automatic target on their backs simply because they are connected to me in the first place. Sherlock is, and always will be a liability as long as I hold the position I do in the government. And the last thing I need is for some common Army doctor to come around and ruin everything," Mycroft clips.

"If you honestly think I am capable of doing what you say, then you obviously aren't as smart as you claim," Jane snarls, balling her fists up in order to stop herself from decking the bastard. "You are also forgetting the fact that I would do anything to protect him just as much as you, and if I haven't proven to you just how dangerous it is to underestimate me by now, then you really are dumber than I thought."

Mycroft huffs bitterly through his nose still refusing to look at her. "Bravery of the soldier. Of course, I still maintain bravery and stupidity are synonymous."

"If you want me gone, you are going to have to do it yourself because I'm not going anywhere unless Sherlock tells me otherwise," Jane says ignoring the barb. "Now let. me. _out."_

"You are making a mistake," Mycroft says as the car slows to a stop and Jane zips up her collar as more of a protective armour than to block out the chill.

"No, Mycroft," she says, glaring at him. "the mistake was leaving for as long as I did in the first place."

Before she has a chance to reach for the door, Mycroft's hand clamps around her wrist like a vice.

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher and yet he elects to be a detective. What then, Dr. Watson, can we deduce about his heart?" There was a trace of pleading in his eyes as if he had been pondering this question all his life, and it took her breath away.

"I – I don't know," she says, startled.

Mycroft sighs and lets her go. "Neither do I," he says, defeated. "But what ever the case, his heart is solely in your hands now. I hope you realise the gravity of this, Jane. I really hope you do. For his sake, and yours."

Jane frowns at him, a tightness cinching her chest at the threat. She goes to say something else, but words abandon her at Mycroft's unusually candid expression. It is one of burning intensity; something ferrous and sharp lingering underneath.

It isn't until after the car drives away when she places that hidden, unfamiliar shadow in Mycroft's eyes: fear.

Jane doesn't know what to make of it, only that it leaves her feeling cold and bereft despite the cheer in the air around her, fairy lights already starting to go up on street corners, and the usual warmth of the holidays lighting up the people passing by. It was surreal, the car ride having felt like an alternate reality in of itself, a nightmare amidst all the gladness.

She sets off walking in the direction of Baker Street, rolling her shoulders and clutching the carrier bag tightly in her fist in order to dissipate the remaining unease.

She tries her hardest not to let his words get to her, she really does, but she can't help but parse through the threats, reflecting one of her deepest fears back to her.

_No matter how this ends, you're no good for him._

Damn Mycroft for sowing seeds of doubt right when she felt like things were finally falling into place. After so many months of ambivalence and heartache, after rebuilding the bond between them, now everything was once again thrown arseways to the breeze.

She couldn't deny the kernel of truth Mycroft presented to her: it was easy for someone to use her to get to Sherlock. The disaster at the pool was proof of that, and the fact that Moriarty was still in the wind causes her stomach to clench unpleasantly at the thought.

But leave Sherlock? Leave the whirlwind of cases, and danger, and impromptu violin concerts at four in the morning, and adventure, and her amazing genius with his enigmatic smile and dark humour? They've tried to distance themselves once before and it didn't work. Just thinking about it is enough to make her ill.

Would she do it if it came down to it? — is the question.

It causes her to come up short and her heart to flutter.

Would she if it meant keeping Sherlock alive?

Yes. No question about it.

That line of thought was another thought that did strange, twisty things to her gut, and she resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind. Hopefully that was a bridge she would never have to cross.

She takes a cleansing breath and turns the corner onto Baker Street, already feeling more at ease with the familiar awning of Speedy's Café coming into view.

The windows of 221B right above the café were merrily lit, beckoning her to the warmth and comfort inside, and she sped up her walking.

Yes, she would definitely worry about all that later.

For now, the strains of a violin are wafting through the open window, calling her back to where she belongs. Where she's always belonged.


	2. Adagio

_**It was the same every time he closed his eyes...**_

**AN: Chapter two as promised, my loves! I hope you like it. Been playing with headcanons with this installment, folks, and I hope you like what's in store. xxHoney.**

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It was the same, always the same, every time he closed his eyes.

_The pool, the lights, Moriarty and his crooked grin like cracked porcelain —_

_and Jane_

_dead, blank and staring, a bullet hole right between her eyes_

_or in the chest_

_that manic laugh ricocheting off the tiled walls._

_"I will burn you. I will burn…the_ heart…_out of you…"_

And he was always too late to stop it. Of course, if it wasn't the snipers, his brain would torture him in coming up with a million different scenarios in which the explosion managed to kill her leaving him unharmed (typical ) as he watched fire and rubble consume her over and over and over until he managed to wake himself up, the sweat causing his cotton shirt to cling unpleasantly to his chest and back. It was like some bloody Sisyphean curse.

It was ironic, really, that something like this would jump start him into dreaming after nearly a decade of going without even a flicker. It was as if his defunct brain was playing catch up by cobbling together hundreds of these scenarios within the course of one night.

It was entirely _loathsome._

Like now for instance, when he jolts awake on the sofa trembling, his ears still ringing from the phantom gunshots and explosions, and mentally he calculates the number twenty-three.

23.

Twenty-three ways in which Jane dies. Six from the snipers, three in a heart and head respectively; ten in the explosion; three found her drowned in the pool; three at Moriarty's own hand; and one — one at his own when he was made to shoot her himself. That was the most chilling of them all, in the end, and his stomach lurches at the memory.

The good thing about his genius, however, is the fact that even in the throes of a vivid nightmare, his logic is never too far away, so it only takes a second for Sherlock to shake off the oily dread clinging to his skin, and find footing in the tangible reality all around him. He flings himself up to a sitting position, scrubbing his hands through his tangled hair, giving it a sharp tug for good measure just to ground him.

His face is still sweaty, (loathsome; ridiculous) and he makes his way to the bathroom so he could dunk his head under the tap. The water is freezing, and sluices under the collar of his slightly rumpled dress shirt and down his back when he straightens up, waking him even further. He gasps, hands braced on either side of the wash basin, and he glares at his reflection in the mirror.

In a word, he looks dreadful.

Pale, severe face, dark circles, hair soaking wet and plastered to his forehead. He grimaces, and grabs his blue dressing gown from the back of the door, tugging it over his lanky frame. He slicks a hand through his curls, brushing the fringe off his forehead, and stomps back out towards the main room.

Distraction. He _needs_ a distraction.

He pauses in the kitchen for a moment, eyes roaming over the contents of the table hoping to find something to do before he remembers all of his current experiments are in various points of stasis for now, and he was still waiting to hear back from Molly about that cirrhotic liver.

He stands in the middle of the sitting room, eyes tracking aimlessly over the walls where his collages are usually tacked when he is working on a case. There are still snippets of the Burks case taped to the mirror that Jane made him leave up so she can type up the details in the blog later. He wonders what the next latest and greatest title is going to be. The Cracked Chiropractor? Abhorrent **Adjustment?** M-alignment Murderer? (Preposterous.) He snorts despite himself, and deep down he admits that this whole title-lark is actually the tiniest bit entertaining. (But that is something he will take to his grave most earnestly if he can help it.)

He sighs morosely, gaze lighting on the skull on the mantle. The hollow eye-sockets stare back at him balefully as if sharing in the misery of his black mood.

"I don't know why you're so upset; you're the dead one, remember?" Sherlock says, and plucks the skull off of its perch. The skull glares back at him as if telling him to do something about their sorry states.

Sherlock curls his lip in a sneer. "I suppose I am made to placate you, then? Like usual." If the skull had eyelids, Sherlock is certain it would entertain him with a dull blink. "Quiet, you."

He makes his way over to the sofa, and flops down in a slouch that would have his mother cringing at its indignity, propping his feet up on the coffee table in a move that would most definitely earn him the title of 'philistine'. He puts the skull on the top of his knees and engages in a futile staring competition.

_Wanna play chess?_

"You were always terrible at chess."

_Ah, I always let you win, mon ami._

"And your French accent is still appalling."

_And you're still cracked, mate._

Sherlock wants to retort, when he realises that doing just that would prove him right. (And that the 'him' in question was an inanimate skull.) He sighs, frowning. It had been a long time since Sherlock had heard his voice inside his head. Since before Jane, anyway. The thought gives him pause.

He picks the skull up and cradles it in his hands for a moment before turning it over. His fingers trace around the hollow at the base (the foramen magnum) for a moment before dipping two of them inside the empty space. He finds what he is looking for, and after gripping it between his fingertips, he pulls out a cool glass phial stoppered at the end with a rubber cork. Inside the phial is grey ash, and Sherlock tilts it back and forth, observing some of the coarser particles fire couldn't completely disintegrate. He shakes it a little, the sound of leftover bone fragments ticking against the sides of the glass tube, before clutching it tightly in his hand. He looks down at his lap.

Without the phial, the skull is just a skull, not even real in the end. Just a really, _really_ good replica. A farce. He sets the grinning thing on the coffee table, and leans back into the couch again, rolling the ashes methodically between his palms.

_Ash._

Doesn't he have enough to say about ash? Yes. He's written entire monographs on the properties of ash, and he could probably fill libraries on the topic. It would be his version of waxing poetic **on the architecture of the column.**

_A lot of people don't realise the beauty in the classical order. The Greco-Roman influence can be found all around us, and people pass it by every day. Take Old Bailey for instance. Classic Ionic columns with traditional scrolls at their capital. They look simple enough, but they have a large base. They are unyielding. Like the law in most respects._

"I thought you didn't want to be an architect? Not really. I thought you were just doing that to piss off your father."

_Yeah well I loved whatever made him livid, so it's no wonder I fell in love with the very thing he despised; creativity and art and anything that was the opposite of investments, and capitol gain. And passion, especially passion. That's why I recruited you almost instantly to be my best mate. You're a right wanker, and driven, and don't give a rat's arse what people think._

Sherlock snorts at this. "If I remember correctly, it was your dog that did the recruiting. If you can even call it that."

The memory of his laughter — robust and burnished bright like copper, echoes in Sherlock's head, and the sound brings a tentative smile to his lips.

_You're my best mate, Sherlock._

The smile falls off his face. "That never did you any good, did it Victor?" he whispers.

He reaches for the skull again and tucks the phial back where it belongs, making sure it is wedged just so behind the mandible so as to not come loose. He rises to his feet again, and places the skull back on the mantle.

His fingertips linger over the cranium for a moment more, before his arm drops back down to his side.

He was an idiot.

Best mate — Best Friend with a capital 'F.' _Partner._ (Paramour?) These were the terms Jane used to describe what they had, and he managed to forget for a while what those particular titles really meant for people like him. He apparently managed to delete the fact that people _like him_didn't have best mates for a reason.

And what was even more infuriating, he especially managed to forget and push aside the only sage advice Mycroft has ever given him about getting involved. About caring. And now — now here he was. Torn between wanting Jane, and being absolutely terrified of what that actually meant for the both of them. Because its not something he can just ignore any longer. He is _involved._ It's not something that he can just lock up in a room in his MindPalace. The fact of the matter is front and centre, forcing him to confront it head on.

How many times did he believe he was doing the right thing with Jane? It was obvious when it came to Moriarty's games that they were better off united than apart. It was true they could be used against one another, but Sherlock wholeheartedly believed he was clever enough in order to stay one step ahead. If Moriarty expected Sherlock to come to this conclusion, (which he did) then obviously his goal was to drive them apart for one reason or another. So clearly it was more logical to do the opposite and stay together at all costs. Granted, they barely escaped with their lives the last time, but with that fact notwithstanding, they wouldn't have been so compromised in the first place had they not split up to begin with.

Sherlock drags his fingers through his hair and tries to dispel the sudden voice in the back of his head (that sounds an awful lot like Mycroft) telling him that he was reaching at this point. Scrambling for purchase, and subsequently in denial.

_'Caring is not an advantage.'_

Sherlock whips around and marches over to the desk where his violin is resting in its open case. He pulls it out and tightens his bow, intent on drowning out the infuriating mosquito buzzing around in his head with its stupid umbrella wielding ways and its propensity to always make him second guess himself.

He pulls the notes from the strings as if drawing poison from a wound, and tries as best as he can to lose himself to the metre that is three-four time, subsumed by _adagio_ and _mezzo forte._

If only for a little while.

-oOo-

Jane makes it halfway up to the flat when she realises something is off. Usually Sherlock hears the street door, and does one of two things: 1) he bellows throughout the flat for either her or Mrs. Hudson — and if it's for Mrs. Hudson it's actually for her anyway just so Jane will pay attention to him and tell him to stop his hollering, or 2) his violin playing will devolve into a tortured shrieking, because Sherlock only plays decently to those he deems are privy. Which is hardly anyone.

So when Jane hears the strains of a beautiful, yet haunting melody, she stops on the landing to listen. It sounds somewhat familiar, but she knows it's nothing she's heard before, and after adjusting the shopping more securely in her hands, she makes her way up the remaining stairs.

The violin only ceases when she lingers in the doorway of the sitting room.

"Jane," Sherlock says, bow still poised over the strings. His back is to her like it normally is when he plays, preferring to look out the window because it helps him think.

"A case, then?" Jane assumes when he starts back up. He doesn't answer, which is normal, however Jane doesn't move from her spot. There is something about his posture that gives her pause. He looks beaten. Exhausted surely, but a different sort of weariness that she's seen only on a few occasions. She tries to place it, eyes scanning throughout the flat for anything amiss. She almost misses it, but at the last second she catches sight of the mantle. The skull is there like always, but she could have sworn it was facing the kitchen earlier. She thinks Sherlock's skills must be rubbing of on her for having noticed, and now she can recognise the piece he's playing by the cadence. It's Bach, she's sure of it, and suddenly, it all makes sense.

She doesn't know what, precisely, Victor Trevor has to do with Sherlock's skull, and she doesn't ask. But lately he's been drawing in on himself, caught up in a certain tragic nostalgia that her knowledge of is tenuous at best.

All she knows is that Sherlock did have a friend once. Someone who was obviously very dear to him. And when that someone was gone, it scared Sherlock off of companionship for nearly a decade. Really, there were only two things she needed to know to draw her own conclusions. One, that his death had been a shock — Sherlock was the one to find him after his suspicions lead him to try and prevent Victor's suicide just a little too late. And two, Sherlock blamed himself for this through and through.

She doesn't ask because it isn't her place to pry into things she has no right prying into, but she pays especial care to Sherlock's subtle shifts in mood, trying as hard as she can to catch him before he hits the bottom.

The brief croak of the bow as it is pressed just a little too hard into the string is what has Jane abandoning her position (sod the bloody milk for now) and closing the distance between them. She knows this sound well; it is one of a fettered desperation just under the surface of that stoicism, apparent only by the fatigue in his wrists as he continues to play and play and play — until the pain manifests into something physical he could actually deal with, instead of the hateful abstract of pain in his chest.

She's not sure if he knows that's what he's doing in the end, but Jane never fails to recognise the cracks in his carefully layered exterior.

"Will you stop for a moment, Sherlock?" she asks, her voice low and soft. She breaches the chasm even more by placing her hand over the back of his shoulder.

The note stutters to a stop, and he lowers the instrument to hang loosely by his side. He bows his head, and sighs wearily.

"What is it?" he says, the usual sharpness dulled due to resignation. He won't meet her gaze, but that's all right.

Instead, she does what she always does and tugs the violin from his slackening grasp so she can put it and the bow back safely in the case. He lets her, pressing his forehead against the window while she flicks the brass latches closed. When she's done, she looks at him and hesitates.

What she really wants to do is smooth her palms over his broad shoulders to ease the tense muscles, and place a tender kiss on the back of his neck just where the hair curls at the top of his collar - but she's been ill-footed ever since she came back, not sure where the boundaries between them were anymore. Ever since the Pool Fiasco, they had been treading carefully around each other, giving each other space and reaffirming their bond as friends before anything else.

She takes a breath and does the next best thing, which is tugging at Sherlock's wrist until he turns around and looks at her with his shifting blue/green eyes.

"All right?" she murmurs, pulling him a little closer. He nods woodenly, and allows her to tug him into an embrace. After a moment of unyielding tension, he breathes out and all but melts into her, face burrowing into the crook of her neck. She smiles, and brings her hands up to cradle his skull, twining her fingers gently in his disheveled hair that's still damp in some places. She can tell he hasn't been sleeping well, and she's not surprised. She traces little whorls into his scalp, feeling him relax even further. "Better?"

"Yes, I'm — I'm fine," Sherlock says, pulling back after a moment. He clears his throat, an embarrassed flush tinting his cheeks. Jane turns away from him, giving him a moment of privacy. She goes into the kitchen to turn on the kettle same as she always does, taking solace in the familiar routine.

"You went shopping," Sherlock remarks from the sitting room. Jane can hear the plastic rustle of the carrier bags, and she suddenly remembers the shirt she bought from Liberty's.

"Wait!" she says, running out just in time to see Sherlock regarding the box wrapped in festive paper with a shiny foil bow on the centre. He has one finger tucked under the folded corner, poised to tear it apart. "Don't you even dare, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why not?" he says, eyes lighting up, devious. "It's obviously for me seeing as how you wouldn't have bothered to wrap it before coming home. So it's meant to be secret, then. Not for Mrs. Hudson, no. You like to be thorough, and haven't had the chance to ask her what she wants, and you, ever so intentional Jane, don't want waste time getting people useless trinkets that will end up in a charity shop come February." Jane rolls her eyes at the rapid deductions, but it's halfhearted. The truth is, she would rather have him be an annoying rambly-dick than that remote, withdrawn figure from a moment ago.

"A secret, exactly. Now give it here," she says trying to sound disapproving.

"So it is for me," Sherlock says, holding her at bay with a palm on her collar bone as he lifts the box up higher, narrowing his eyes as if that would activate some sort of latent x-ray ability. He's certainly intent in his scrutiny, as if scowling hard enough would help him see the contents just beyond the dancing Christmas trees and boughs of holly.

"_Yes,_ you prat. But it's for Christmas, and you can't open it until then," Jane says and swipes it from him.

"Oh dull. What's the point in waiting for a specific day to open a gift? Holidays are rubbish, full of obligatory 'get-togethers' and false overall fond…_ness."_ He says the word with a crinkle of his nose.

"You're just throwing a strop because crime is usually down during this time of year."

"Don't remind me," he bemoans, and plucks the parcel from her again, holding it high over her head where she can't reach.

"It's your fault. There's been loads of perfectly good clients you've turned down," she huffs, standing on tip-toes to try and snatch the present to no avail.

"What, you mean the little girls and their missing granddad we had yesterday?"

"That, and the poor sod found in Southwark," Jane rejoins.

"I didn't have enough data for that one, I told you," Sherlock says, gritting his teeth.

"No," Jane says, "you're just pissy you couldn't figure it out, and in light of — what did you call it? — the 'absurd happenstance' of the case, to work on it any further would only be a 'detriment of fine superior brain power.'"

"The whole thing was a circus act! The plane tickets; the special first class biscuits; the fact he was stuffed in the car boot in his Sunday best. Ridiculous. I have far better things to occupy my time with. He wasn't even _murdered_ for chrissake."

"Yeah but he was supposed to die in that plane crash in Düsseldorf!" Jane exclaims. "Don't you have _any_ theories?"

Sherlock glares at her before shaking the present he was holding. "I have a few _theories_ about what's inside this box."

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Don't spoil it!" Jane says.

"It's a shirt."

Jane flares her nostrils. "Stop guessing," she says, and whacks the crease of his arm so he'll drop the present once and for all.

"I never guess," he pouts, rubbing the inside of his elbow. "I know it's a shirt."

"No, you don't," she says obstinately. She holds it close to her chest, trying to hide her disappointment.

"Jane," he says, giving her a _'be serious, of course I know what's in the box I'm the best detective in __London__'_ sort of look. She purses her lips. "Jane."

"So what if you're right? You're not opening it until Christmas." She walks over and props it tauntingly on the desk.

"But I know what it is already!" Sherlock says.

"Doesn't matter. You're not getting it until Christmas. And I _will_ know if you try to open it behind my back," she says, whirling around and pushing him away from the desk.

"What do you expect me to do? It's just sitting there mocking me!" Sherlock says. "You know as well as I do I am not responsible for my actions when I'm bored." He crosses his arms haughtily.

Jane goes to retort when an idea suddenly hits her. She makes her way over to the mantle. "You're bored, are you?"

"Horrendously so."

"In that case, you shouldn't have any qualms about —" She doesn't get to finish, when Sherlock stridently cuts her off.

"No! We are _not_ doing that!" he nearly shouts when Jane retrieves a pair of theatre tickets from the utility knife pinned to the wood that served as their placeholder for various correspondence.

"Oh yes we are. Tonight's the last night, and thanks to Angelo, these are redeemable anytime as long as the show is running. Waste not, want not," she says grabbing her jacket again.

"Well, I happen to 'want not.' Go without me," Sherlock says, shooing her with his hand.

"Ah, no. Last time I left you alone when you were like this you shot up the walls, and then blew up the flat," she says, tossing him his greatcoat.

"_That_ was not my fault," Sherlock says indignantly, but shrugs on his Belstaff all the same. He mutters darkly under his breath, but allows her to lead them out to the pavement where they set off in the direction of finding a cab. She can tell his black mood is really just for show at this point, and that he's actually grateful for an excuse to get out of the flat.

He doesn't have to say anything, but when his hand finds its way into hers, Jane can't help but smile a little when he squeezes it in gratitude.


	3. Breaching Distance

_**The famous Consulting Detective and his blogger.**_

**AN: Hello friends. Life has been really crazy for me. I am starting a new job and jumping through all these hoops just to get said job has eaten most of my time. That, and the fact I was abroad for most of August, well...yes. So here is chapter three. Two chapters coming up for 'Afters' for this one, and I will try to get them out in a more timely matter, as well as some of the requests I have in my queue. Thank you all for being lovely, and patient, and wonderful.**

**xxHoney**

* * *

"Fantastic!" Sherlock exclaims.

_"No,"_ Jane moans.

"Truly, one of your better ideas, Jane." He pushes through the gaggle of police officers sectioning off a portion of the stage where they were just finishing clearing the scene.

"Please, stop talking," she says, pressing her fingers into her brow to ward off a tension headache. _One quiet night out. Was that really too much to ask?_

"To think what we almost _missed!"_ he says, gesturing to the high vaulted ceilings of the theatre. Jane groans again, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Brilliant!"

"Sherlock. Timing," Jane murmurs as they pass a series of ashen faced witnesses.

"LIVE MURDER!" he booms. One of the witnesses gasps, and covers her mouth.

"I'm never taking you anywhere. Ever. Again."

_"See?_ It is entirely possible for the victim to have inadvertently murdered himself, Jane. I suggest you remember this the next time we play**Cluedo."**

"We aren't playing Cluedo ever again, thank you very much. In fact, remind me to crucify it to the bloody wall when we get home, won't you?" Jane says gritting her teeth.

"Hm. That's a bit violent, Jane," Sherlock remarks, continuing to make a beeline for the exit.

"It passes the time," Jane mutters darkly. Sherlock looks at her askance, and wisely doesn't comment.

"Oh no you don't," Lestrade says just before Sherlock reaches the lobby doors. "There is a lot of press outside, and the last thing I need is a PR problem."

"They won't be interested in us," Sherlock dismisses, and tries to go around the harried Detective Inspector.

"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon," Lestrade remarks, and steps in front of Sherlock, brows furrowed in disgruntlement. "A couple of them want photos of you two. Specifically." Jane brightens at this. Even though she thought the sudden publicity was odd, it proved that her blog really was something.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock says, whipping around on his heel. "We'll just take the back, then."

"No good," Lestrade says, hurrying to keep pace. "They're at the stage door also." Sherlock lets out a frustrated groan/whine thing that reminds Jane of a cranky five-year-old.

"Aw, come on, Sherlock," she says, ribbing him a little. She follows him into one of the dressing rooms where he immediately begins to tear various articles of clothing off of the nearest rack. "This could be good for your public image."

"I'm a private detective; the last thing I need is a 'public image.'" He mashes some sort of hat — a deer stalker — onto his head, and Jane can't help but snort her amusement. His rebellious curls don't take kindly to their new bonnet, and they stick out wildly from the sides. And with the earflaps tied up, his hair looks positively manic where it's trying to escape. "What?"

"That, erm," Jane clears her throat, trying to stifle her grin, "is very fetching on you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tugs off his blue scarf. "Shut up," he says, and drapes the scarf over her head. He takes the end and tosses it across her face like some jaded Hollywood starlet.

"Hey!"

"Cover up, and walk fast," he says and turns left down the corridor towards the stage door.

"Sherlock," Lestrade calls from behind them. "I still need a statement!"

Sherlock doesn't answer, as is typical.

"Sherlock!"

"I'll make sure, Greg," she says, and Sherlock drags her behind him with an impatient growl. He pushes open the door, and Jane hardly has time to catch her breath before everything goes instantly pear-shaped.

It only takes one person yelling, _"Sherlock Holmes!"_ to ignite the hysteria, causing flashbulbs and shouting to all erupt at once. The crowd surges forward, and just like that, Jane's hand slips out of Sherlock's.

"Jane!" he shouts, trying to go to her, but the cameras flash in his face, causing him to shrink back and pull up his collar.

Someone snatches at the scarf on her head, pulling her hair, and Jane just manages to grab it before it falls off.

"Sherlock!" she calls, her voice getting swallowed up by the crowd.

Someone bodily moves her aside, and she finds herself being jostled by the press, people with camera phones, and general fans of the ruined show looking for something to get back a bit of their spoiled entertainment. Someone's elbow crashes down on Jane's collarbone, and in the melee she stumbles and lands hard on the pavement. She curses, and tries to stand back up, but there are people all around, and in their struggle to get closer, they end up pushing her down even more. A foot comes down on her hand, and she cries out as panic starts to creep up her spine.

She wasn't being trampled, not yet, but it was a near thing, and the wall of people felt like it was closing in on her on all sides. A gap opens up to her right, and Jane tries to crawl towards it, only to be kicked in the chin a moment later, knocking her silly. Her vision blurs and her hearing tunnels out for a moment, and she isn't sure but she thinks she can hear Sherlock calling for her again. Before she has a chance to orient herself and respond back, however, she finds herself being pulled up roughly by the waist.

"Get off me!" she snarls, and tries to break out of the iron grip that has her.

"Relax, darling," a suave and vaguely familiar voice says from behind her.

She turns her head, and still a little bleary says, "Athos?"

"The one and only," says Mycroft's PA, and Jane can hear Greg's booming orders barked out across the crowd as he tries to break up the crowd. Athos steers her directly towards a black town car, but Jane stops and shakes out of his grasp. She cranes her neck and stands on tiptoe to try and get a glimpse of Sherlock.

At last, the crowd parts with Greg leading the way followed by a wild looking Sherlock in his wake. His eyes are busy scanning the crowd, and when he spots Mycroft's car, he scowls in such annoyance that Jane can't help but chuckle.

As if sensing her presence, Sherlock's eyes suddenly snap to hers, startling her with its intensity. The relief that floods his face is magnified tenfold within her, and she feels the tension drain from her own neck and shoulders. There is **a moment** that passes between them — suspended like a lifetime between heartbeats — before Sherlock is suddenly pushing past Lestrade, ignoring the shouts and cameras from the crowd. Jane has to stop herself from rushing back into the hubbub just so she can get to him sooner as her own urgency nearly overtakes her. There was far, far too much distance between them; it simply wouldn't do.

"Are you all right?" he demands when he reaches her, clasping her shoulders and looking earnestly into her face. He _tsks_ and lightly touches the bruise no doubt just beginning to bloom on her jaw.

"I'm fine," she says, smiling at the absurd hat still perched on his head. He rolls his eyes, and tears off the stupid thing, throwing it into the crowd and scoffing at their sudden rabid enthusiasm.

"Bloody vultures," he mutters darkly, and follows Jane into the back of the town car. Athos doesn't follow. Instead, he shuts the door and bangs the roof of the car to signal the driver, thumbs flying over his Blackberry a moment later. Jane doesn't know why, but she is immensely relieved Mycroft's PA isn't joining them. She feels wound tight like a spring, and the clashing dynamics of Sherlock and Athos - who can't seem to refrain from making advances on her just to irritate the younger Holmes - would just be a bit too much at the moment. It is already bad enough that Sherlock is currently fuming at the fact they are in Mycroft's car in the first place. No need for the little ponce to exacerbate Sherlock's possessive side.

Sherlock's phone buzzes with an incoming text, and he glares at it with a thunderous expression. Jane just manages to take it from him before he gets the window down so he could chuck it outside.

"Ah, no. This is already your second mobile this month. Let's try to make it last, hm?" she says and looks down at the text before turning it off.

_Thought __London__'s newest celebrity could use a lift. Try not to disgrace our family with your new-found fame. M_

She scoffs, slipping it into her jacket pocket. _Holmeses, honestly._

"He's insufferable," Sherlock says, crossing his arms in a huff.

"Pot. Kettle," Jane says, unable to help herself from ribbing him one more time.

"Oh shut up."

Jane smirks again, but lets him have his sulk, not minding the shared silence between them as she looks out the window.

When they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock all but flings himself from the car in a fury of black whirling coat and stomps his way into the flat without so much as a by-your-leave. Jane shakes her head in exasperation. He was such a drama queen.

"My goodness," their landlady says, fluttering nervously in the foyer.

"Sorry about him, Mrs. Hudson," Jane says, pulling the door shut.

"Ooh he's in a terrible snit, isn't he? I only wanted to tell him that his package arrived, and he nearly took my head off."

"I'll take it up to him, if you want," Jane says, sighing.

"Oh you're a dear. I'll just go and fetch it, shall I? Come in, Jane, I just put the kettle on."

Twenty minutes, half a pot of tea, and a side of juicy gossip later, Jane makes her way up to the flat with a jammy dodger between her teeth, and a large cardboard envelope under her arm.

Sherlock, of course, is in front of the window sawing away at his violin so vociferously a few white bow hairs have come loose and are being lashed about at the tip. She sighs yet again. She only just managed to get him to stop torturing the damn thing.

"Sherlock," Jane says, looking at the front of the envelope. He ignores her, the violin giving a gruesome wail. Jane frowns, noticing the return address is posted as New Scotland Yard. "Sherlock. I think you got something from Lestrade."

Sherlock ceases playing, the note cutting off abruptly when he finally turns around. He takes one look at the parcel in Jane's hands, and his face instantly snaps into a delighted, almost feral-like expression. He sets the instrument down haphazardly on his leather armchair, and bounds across the room. To be honest, it's quite frightening, especially when he insists on prowling like a bloody jaguar.

_"Finally!"_ Sherlock says, snatching it from Jane.

"What is it?" Jane asks. Sherlock rips the seal with a flourish of his long fingers.

"It's something I've been expecting for quite some time now." He pulls a sheaf of papers out with no heed of the envelope, and rifles through them. Jane waits, shifting impatiently.

"Well? What's got you all bright-eyed?" Jane says.

Sherlock takes a breath, surely about to launch into what ever it was had him so eager, but at the last moment it gets stuck in his throat.

"It's…er, well. It's — I — erm…"

Jane's eyebrows rise in amusement as she watches him fumble. She can't recall seeing Sherlock so inarticulate before.

"Yes?"

Sherlock looks at a spot over her shoulder, visibly struggling with a sudden onset of indecision. He looks like a kid who's simply bursting to divulge a great and terrible secret, and yet wants to keep it all to himself. Eventually the former wins out, and his mercurial gaze lights upon her once more.

"It's for…you, actually," Sherlock says, haltingly.

And what ever Jane thought the big mystery was, this clearly wasn't what she had expected. She blinks.

"For me? Like a present?"

"Ye — what? No, don't be ridiculous."

Jane grins only wider as she notes the blush creeping up Sherlock's neck. "A _Christmas_ present?"

"Don't be preposterous."

"You're repeating yourself."

"No, last time I said 'ridiculous'," Sherlock argues.

"Same thing," she shrugs, not rising to the bait of his usually infuriating pedantry. "Christmas present," she states.

He flusters. "The arrival of this parcel is purely coincidental to that of goings-on of the holiday season. It's not a _Christmas Present_." The disdain with which he says this is palpable.

"Right," Jane says, wholly unconvinced. "Because you don't do things like this."

"Precisely."

"Then you wouldn't mind if I have it now."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but doesn't concede to the trap he's fallen into. "Of course," he says handing the stack imperiously over to her. She takes it with an air of triumph to which Sherlock tries his hardest to look supremely disinterested by. But she knows better, and she can't help flaunting it a little. She takes off the clip binding the papers together with a little flourish, and settles in to read.

At first, Jane doesn't know exactly what she is looking at. From what she can see, it's mostly carbon copies of past indictments and suspect processing. In a familiar hand that Jane swiftly recognises as her uncle's messy scrawl, she reads about various assault charges pressed against—

"Dr. Martin Ella?" Jane says, dumbfounded. She checks the date, and notices the case was opened January 29th, the last day she saw her bloody awful therapist who tried to make a pass at her. She never filed an official inquiry, however, due to the fact that she subsequently…lost her temper. Somehow, she gathered that asking the police to investigate Ella after the minor incident that transpired was perhaps a Bit Not Good.

So, if she didn't file this report that led to his accusation, the question is…who did?

She looks up at her detective, a tentative hope blooming in her chest. She sucks in a breath when she sees the confirmation shining back at her in Sherlock's eyes.

He clears his throat, suddenly bashful. "You'll be happy to know, ah, Dr. Ella has been stripped of his title and is currently serving time for assault, coercion, and attempted rape."

"How did you know? I've never told anyone," Jane says, awestruck.

"Please," he scoffs. It comes out sounding more fond than scornful, however. "It was written all over you the second you walked into the lab that day. Posture rigid, hair in disarray. The acuity of your awareness to others' proximity. That, and the fact Mycroft is constitutionally incapable of staying out of my affairs. You had him a bit worried, especially given the fact you snapped Ella's arm as if it were nothing but a tree branch. When he told me Ella was your therapist, I simply put two and two together and called Lestrade."

"But…you didn't even _know_ me. Why would you do that?" she asks, her throat going strangely tight.

"I…didn't really think about it at the time," Sherlock says, turning away from her. "I just knew that —" He cuts himself off, walking towards the fireplace and placing both hands flat on the mantle.

"What?" she ventures. She takes a few steps towards him.

He shakes his head, chuckling darkly. "I just knew that I _wanted_ you." He tenses his shoulders as if embarrassed by his foolishness, before meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Strange what motivates us, don't you think?"

His words are weighted with deeper meaning that isn't lost on Jane, her own memory harkening back to the day where their lives auspiciously collided. She remembers the curious pull Sherlock had over her, and how she felt like she would do anything for him, acting on the overwhelming impulse of keeping him safe. She looks steadily back at him.

"I would do it all again, you know," she says.

His pale eyes are searing, and a frisson of dark heat races through her, making her pulse thrum headily in her veins. She bites her lip, and Sherlock's eyes flick to her mouth, pupils dilating.

He turns around, his throat working as he swallows, and Jane's eyes are drawn to the hollow at the base of his neck before traveling back up to his angular face. The dim lighting of the flat only serves to make him look otherworldly.

"I would, too." His voice is deep, and he breaches the distance between them inch by inch. He reaches out and tucks a stand of her hair behind her ear, the move curiously chaste even though Jane can read the intensity corded in his body. For a moment she thinks he is going to kiss her, and for the first time in the months she's been back she welcomes the idea, finally casting off her last lingering inhibitions. Instead, he lightly touches her cheek, smiling almost sadly before he pulls away to maintain a more respectable distance.

Jane feels shivery and bereft from the loss, and hugs the documents to her chest as she watches him pick up his bow and instrument in order to resume his playing. "Well, thank you, Sherlock. This means more than you know," she says before he can draw the bow across the strings. He pauses, glancing at her, and nods once.

The notes spill forth in a beautiful melody which accompanies her up the stairs to her room. It makes her feel lighter than she's felt in a while, and yet inexplicably sad.

She tries not to think too hard on it, and puts the papers in the shoe box at the bottom of her wardrobe.

She gets ready for bed, braiding her hair in front of her mirror and letting the dulcet strains of Paganini sink into her. The music ebbs at her like the tide, drawing her to her bed where she sinks down into the plush mattress and warm duvet.

The last thought Jane has before the darkness takes her is of Sherlock's hands burning into her skin, his fingers resting over the spaces between her ribs, and of his eyes piercing into her as they endlessly collide across the expanse of the universe…

* * *

**In case you are unaware, this is loosely based on the 'Aluminium Crutch' on the Blog of Dr. John Watson.**


	4. Doppleganger

_**Sherlock has been appointed by the highest authority.**_

**AN: Hey friends! I am sorry it's been a while on this story. I've been consumed with my little!Sherlock story, 'Not Leaving' and I got a bit distracted. Trying to balance between writing multiple stories is a bit tricky, so bare with me! You all are fantastic, and I hope you like this chapter. Especially because we have Sherlock parading around in a bed sheet most of the chapter, so.**

**;)**  
**xxHoney.**

* * *

_Sent — 11:08 AM_  
_what have you done, and why am I in a bloody helicopter?_

is the text Jane sends Sherlock as said helicopter is taking off from the ground where she was just at a crime scene moments before. As if talking to her half-naked flatmate via Skype wasn't embarrassing enough, getting the call that _this_ was her ride to some undisclosed location is just the cherry on top, really.

_Sent — __11:20 AM_  
_sherlock. seriously. should I be worried?_

"Ma'am," the voice of the pilot crackles in her headphones. "Please refrain from using your mobile device while we are airborne."

"Right, sorry," Jane says. She sighs through her nose, and tucks her phone into her jeans pocket. "Any chance you can tell me where it is we are going?"

"Didn't they tell you? BuckinghamPalace," the pilot says, giving her a sceptical look.

"Of course," Jane says clenching her jaw.

_I just might kill him._

-oOo-

The large man who rudely shut his laptop in the middle of his investigation, sets a neat stack of Sherlock's clothes down on the desk. (Good thing he already saw all he needed to solve the case, even though he did end up deducing a bit more than he anticipated about his podgy client.)

"Pardon me, heart _what?_ As in heart condition?" comes the dim, and very belated reply. Sherlock nearly forgot about the client in his annoyance, and he cringes inwardly.

"No matter. Rest assured the case has been solved, Henry. Mrs. Hudson will show you out," he dismisses.

"It's Phil," he says weakly, and Mrs. Hudson helps him to his feet with a motherly hand on his elbow.

"There, there, dear. You heard him, all will be well. But I might pop round the doctor for a check-up. Couldn't hurt," she says, shooting Sherlock a concerned glance, and shuffling to the door.

"Please, Mr. Holmes," the man says gritting his teeth. "Where you are going, you will want to be dressed."

Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, clutching the sheet wrapped around him closer to himself in petulant defiance. His eyes flash over the man rapid fire. Based on his hair cut, manicure, the matches in his breast pocket, and evidence of two (no _three_) dogs — he knew _exactly_ where they were going.

"I'll go with you," Sherlock says imperiously as if he actually has a choice in the matter. (He most likely doesn't.) "But on one condition."

His eyes flit to the neatly wrapped present sitting next to his chair, a mischievous grin curling the corner of his lips.

...

The theatrics really were dull. Mycroft could be so predictable at times, but Sherlock will admit the fact he is currently sitting in BuckinghamPalace is a _little_ intriguing. He must be in need of his help rather direly if he gave 'Brutus' the directive to deliver him by whatever means necessary, even letting him walk out of the flat still dressed in the sheet. He smirks to himself, looking at his stack of clothes sitting on the ornately carved mahogany table in front of him. The present Jane got him is sitting just under his shoes. She would have to let him open it now, surely. Once she got here, of course.

As if on cue, Sherlock hears Jane's sensible shoes tapping cautiously against the marble floors. She's getting closer, but every so often her steps falter, no doubt ogling the lavish surroundings of the Palace. He feels anticipation warring with annoyance. (Yes, yes, it's a palace, tapestries and oil paintings and ornate filigree on the ceilings and _come on already, Jane_.)

Finally, Jane makes it into the antechamber to the room he was in. He looks at her, and has to repress another smirk as she cranes her head back to look at the crystal chandelier sparkling in the natural light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She, eventually spots him, however, and her eyebrows lilt in bemusement. She gestures silently, arm sweeping out to encompass the hall, and Sherlock merely shrugs.

She nods, seemingly not wanting to break the silence, (almost unsure if she's even allowed, probably) and resolutely marches towards him. She narrows her eyes at his state of undress, and spots the clothes sitting on the table. If she's curious as to what the gift is doing here, she doesn't make it known, instead sitting stiffly next to him on the Italian leather sofa.

"Are you wearing any pants?" she asks after a beat, staring straight ahead.

"No," he answers swiftly.

"Okay."

After another moment of silence, they both turn to look at each other and promptly burst out laughing.

"Oh my god," Jane says, bracketing her eyes with her forefinger and thumb as her shoulders shake with giggles. "The bloody Palace. Okay, fine. Absolutely fine."

"Fine?" Sherlock says, laughter still rumbling out of him.

"No. I am _seriously_ trying to rein in the impulse to steal one of those nice crystal ashtrays."

"You don't even smoke," Sherlock chuckles.

"That's the point," Jane says, tears of mirth in her eyes. "Seriously, though. What the hell are we doing here?"

"No idea."

"Here to see the Queen?" Jane asks.

At that exact moment, Mycroft walks in clearing his throat.

"Oh, apparently, yes," Sherlock snarks, and Jane snorts loudly, a new fit of hysterics bubbling up. Her cheeks turn a lovely pink as she tires desperately to stifle her laughter.

Mycroft bristles. "Could you both act like adults for once in your life?"

Jane levels him a patronising _'aren't you cute?'_ sort of look. "Mycroft. Your brother solves crimes, I blog about it on the internet, and he forgets his underwear. What do you think?"

"Indeed," Mycroft says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. It's vastly irritating.

"I was on a case, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, scowling fiercely. (Arrogant, pompous, infuriating —)

"What, the hiker and the backfiring car? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious isn't it?" Mycroft says with an unctuous smirk.

( — _overweight,_ good for nothing, toffee-nosed, arse-faced, _bastard_.)

"Transparent," is Sherlock bitten-off reply.

"Then it's settled."

"What? It's not transparent to me," Jane says, startled. They both ignore her.

"Time to move on, then?" Mycroft says, picking up Sherlock's pile of clothes and holding it out expectantly. When Sherlock refuses to make a move, Mycroft's composure finally cracks. "We are sitting in the very heart of the British Nation; Sherlock Holmes, _put your clothes on!"_

"Well that's not up to me, is it?" Sherlock says, shooting a glance at Jane. He was already being gratuitously obstinate, might as well draw it out just a little longer. Jane, at first, frowns in confusion before darting a look at the prim present box in Mycroft's hands as he continues to hold the clothes out for him. It doesn't take her long to cotton on, and she glowers at him.

"Oh _honestly,_ Sherlock," she grumbles, folding her arms across her chest while he gives her a Cheshire grin.

"Sherlock. Trousers. _Now,"_ Mycroft snaps. It's a sign that his older brother is well and truly irritated when he is reduced to single syllable directives. Sherlock takes it as a victory.

"What for?" he says, arching a bored eyebrow.

"Your client," Mycroft sneers condescendingly.

A spike of anger lights up Sherlock's blood, and he rises to his feet, clutching the sheet to him. "And _my client_ is?"

"Illustrious in every sense of the word," comes a voice through the antechamber. Sherlock turns to see a stately man (the equerry, no doubt) strolling into the room, his hard soles tapping against the floor. "And shall remain, for obvious reasons, entirely anonymous."

"Harry," Mycroft says, crossing the room to shake the man's hand. "I do so apologise for the state of my little brother."

"Not to worry, Mycroft. I'm sure it's a full-time occupation, apologising on his behalf," he says with a cheeky grin, and Sherlock bristles even more. Before he can cut in with a snide remark about the equerry's no-doubt cheating wife, the man turns towards Jane. "And this must be Dr. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Yes, hello," Jane says cordially, taking his proffered hand.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly the case of 'The Aluminium Crutch,'" he says.

"I — thank you!" Jane says, a flattered blush staining her cheeks. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"And Mr. Holmes the younger," he says offering his hand to which Sherlock ignores. "I will confess, I thought you'd be taller."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short girlfriend," Sherlock clips. Jane sputters beside him, but he ignores it, stepping up into Mycroft's space. "I don't _do_ anonymous clients, Mycroft. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is simply too much work. Good day. Jane?"

He marches past, expecting Jane to follow, his sheet brushing along the floor like the train to a gown.

Suddenly, the sheet jerks and pulls taut, slipping from his naked body. He just manages to grab the end and clutch it around his waist before he_actually_ embarrasses himself.

"Grow up," Mycroft says, his big, fat foot the culprit. (It's like they are children again, and Sherlock reflects how ironic that statement really is.)

"Get off my _sheet!"_ he snarls.

"Or what?" he challenges in that familiar way of his. (_I dare you, Sherlock. Don't be a big baby. You're stupid; I'm telling Mummy_.)

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock sniffs, as if walking around BuckinghamPalace completely starkers is no big hardship.

"Boys," Jane says, intervening. "Not here."

"Who. Is. My. CLIENT?" Sherlock growls.

"Take a look at where you are standing and _make a deduction._ You have been summoned by the highest in the land, now for god's sake," he takes a breath to rein himself in. "Put your clothes on!"

Sherlock snaps the sheet out from under Mycroft's foot so he can wrap it around himself like a toga. He turns around and glares at his brother before looking pointedly at Jane. She gathers the pile of clothes, leaving the present on the table, and walks over, holding it out to him.

"Jane," he says.

"What?"

"I'll be needing a _shirt."_

"You have one right —" she starts before she catches on to what Sherlock is implying. "Oh for the love of…" she mutters, and stomps back over to the table to snatch up the present. She shoves it into Sherlock's chest, almost causing him to drop his clothes and his sheet. He can't help but smirk, however, as she storms away, back to the sofa.

"Thank you, Jane," he says just to be irritating. She flops down, aggravated.

"Piss off."

...

Finally dressed, Sherlock saunters back into the room with a pleased grin on his face, doing up the second to last button on the shirt Jane got him. It's sinfully soft against his skin, and it's just the thing he would have picked for himself, if not for the colour. It's quite bold even for his tastes, and it's not something he would have thought he could pull off given his fair complexion and preference of a more monochromatic colour pallet. But when he inspected himself in the gilded mirror in the powder room, he could admit that he actually looks quite dashing in aubergine.

(And if the faint blush on Jane's cheeks is any indication, it appears she agrees.)

He smirks at her, and she rolls her eyes as he sits down, unbuttoning his suit jacket to maintain the crisp lines.

"Why Jane, I didn't know you had such extravagant tastes," he says.

"Shut up, you great menace," she says elbowing him. He elbows her back.

"Children, please," Mycroft chides as brings the tea service over to the small table, and sits across from them next to the equerry. Both Jane and Sherlock suppress a grin. Mycroft darts them one last stern glare before he picks up the tea pot. "I'll be mother," he jokes.

"There's a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock can't resist but jab. Mycroft glowers at him.

"My employer has a problem," the equerry says to Sherlock.

"A matter of extreme delicacy and potentially criminal in nature has come to light, and in this hour of dark need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why me? You have a police force, of sorts, and a marginally reputable Secret Service."

"Is it not safe to assume people come to you for help, Mr. Holmes," the equerry says.

"Not anyone with the Royal Navy, that I know," Sherlock says.

"This is a matter of highest security, and therefore of trust," Mycroft states.

"Ironic, then, you should come to me, Mycroft. What, you don't trust your own Secret Service?"

"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."

Jane huffs a laugh, and the equerry shifts impatiently in his seat.

"I believe we have a timetable."

"Of course," Mycroft says amenably, and takes out a silver briefcase, flicking open the latches. He pulls out a glossy 8x10 surveillance photo, and hands it to Sherlock. His eyes track over the candid shot of a woman with a delicate shoulders, (posture erect despite her stature, confident, used to getting what she wants) flawless makeup, (uses her appearance to manipulate), and fiery red hair. "What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock says taking the rest of the photos from Mycroft. They are screenshots of a website with a gothic design, red and black lace, and a shot of a woman from the back of the shoulders down in a tightly laced corset and scandalous knickers. The title of the page is_The Whip Hand,_ and the marquee states: _'Know when you are beaten.'_

"Then you haven't been paying attention. She's been in the centre of two political scandals this year alone, and just recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately," Mycroft says, and something about that catches Sherlock's attention. He looks back at the photo of the woman with hair that matches her lipstick.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"

"Irene Adler," Mycroft provides. Sherlock doesn't miss the scrutinising look leveled at him, and his suspicions are even more heightened. "Professionally known as The Woman."

"Professionally?" Jane asks, leaning over to look at the photos in Sherlock's hands.

"I believe she prefers the term, 'Dominatrix,'" Mycroft says.

"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeats, bemused.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft says, upper lip curling into a cruel jeer. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock snaps.

"How would _you_ know?" Mycroft says, and Sherlock blanches, reeling back a little. Without consciously meaning to, he concedes this **battle of wit and will** to his elder brother once again, and averts his eyes. Jane tenses next to him, and he tries his best to ignore it. "She provides what you would call — _recreational scolding_ — for those who enjoy that sort of entertainment, and are willing to pay for it."

"Let me guess. This Adler woman has some photos in her possession that feature someone of significance to your employer in some rather_compromising_ scenarios?" Sherlock asks the equerry.

"You are very quick, Mr. Holmes," the equerry says.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Who is it then?" Sherlock asks, not really needing a confirmation. (He had a pretty good idea who it was. If this mysterious Woman was out for blood, she would strike where the iron was most hot.)

The equerry balks for a moment. "Like you said…someone of significance to my employer. We prefer not to say anything else at this time."

"You can't tell me anything?" Sherlock implores, just to see the man squirm.

"We can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft intercedes. Sherlock refuses to look at him. "A young _female_ person." (Just as he thought.)

"Ah," Sherlock remarks just as Jane chokes on her tea. "How many photographs?"

"A considerable number," Mycroft says, his voice strained. Sherlock darts a glance in his direction, but it isn't long enough to deduce anything.

"Will you take the case, Mr. Holmes?" the equerry asks hopefully.

"Mm, no. Jane, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer, we're leaving," he says and gets to his feet in one fluid motion. The equerry jumps to his feet as well, and so does Mycroft except with more grace and pompousness. (Arrogant bastard.) "You've got nothing; she's beaten you, innuendo very much implied. Pay her in full, and immediately. Given her masthead, it's time you got with the programme." Sherlock buttons his suit jacket, and starts to usher Jane towards the exit.

The equerry begins to sputter his protests, but before he can give himself a coronary, Mycroft speaks up.

"She doesn't want anything."

Finally, Sherlock does look at his brother, unable to hide the delighted shock that is surely on his face. "What did you say?"

"She got in touch, informed us that the photographs existed but that she would not attempt to use them to extort either money or favour."

"Oh a power play. That is interesting," Sherlock breathes, his mind ticking back to a thought he had dismissed earlier. (Could it be —? Oh yes, very clever.) "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now _that's_ what you call a dominatrix. This is getting rather fun, now, isn't it?"

"Sherlock," Jane warns.

"I can tell you one thing I am almost certain of," Sherlock says, addressing the equerry, but observing Jane from his peripheral, "This Ms. Adler, is more than meets the eye. Oh yes, being in two places simultaneously, participating in a lascivious affair with both parties for so long isn't easy. And then there's the fact she was successfully at the heart of numerous political scandals without being defamed herself — I mean, the press should be drooling all over her. I know I don't concern myself with society's gossip, but even I'm not that oblivious."

"What are you talking about?" Jane asks.

"It's obvious isn't it? Especially now with this bloody fantastic ace up her sleeve." He waits to see if anyone (other than Mycroft who is looking particularly smug at the moment) will catch on. They don't of course. "Ms. Adler is in fact, two separate people. I would bet money on _that_," he tosses his head in the direction of the photos spread out on the table, "being the doppelganger."

"There are _two_ Irene Adlers?" the equerry exclaims, flushing an unattractive shade beetroot.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock disdains. "There's only one Irene Adler. But a woman who makes a move as grand scale as this obviously has a lot to lose. She wouldn't dare put her own face out there."

"Brilliant," Jane says, into the stunned silence while the equerry gapes like a dying fish.

"Text me her location; I will be in touch by the end of the day," Sherlock says, swinging on his coat like a matador.

The equerry recovers slightly. "Do you really think you'll have information by then?"

"No. I think I'll have the photographs," he says with a feral grin.

"One can only hope you are a good as you claim, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock scrutinises him, taking up the challenge. Deductions fly at him as if superimposed in the air, (dog lover; public school; horse rider; early riser; left side of bed; keen reader, tea drinker, father – half welsh; _non smoker,_ oh interesting…) and he smirks, already formulating a plan in his head in dealing with the likes of Ms. Adler.

"I need some equipment, of course," Sherlock says.

"Anything you need will be afforded to you. I'll have it sent to —"

"I'll be needing a box of matches," Sherlock says to the equerry, speaking over Mycroft.

"I'm sorry?"

"Or your cigarette lighter. Either one will do."

"I don't smoke," the equerry says.

"I know _you_ don't. But your employer does," Sherlock says, baring his teeth slightly.

The equerry starts, lips pursing together, before reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve a silver lighter. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes," he says with a bit of warning colouring his tone.

Sherlock winks. "I'm not the Commonwealth."

"And that's about as modest as he gets," Jane says.

Sherlock turns on his heel, confident that she is right behind him. He throws a negligent hand in the air with his usual panache. "Lat'ers!"

"Honestly," Jane exasperates.

...

In the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, Jane sits stiffly next to him, the tension rolling off her in waves. Sherlock fidgets next to her, trying not to let his nervousness show. He knows what she's thinking, of course he does. Mycroft and his big mouth, and his ridiculous insinuations. The question is there, hovering in the corners of her mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. She should just ask already and get it over with. Sherlock's mouth twists in a bitter grimace, and his stomach feels slick with unease in anticipation of the inevitable conversation.

In his line of work, it was his job to know what motivated people, and the carnal desires of the flesh were simply another form of _modus operandi_as far as he was concerned.

Sex; the release of endorphins and oxytocin stimulating a chemical high that consumed people's thoughts, and under the right set of grizzly circumstances, drove them to commit unspeakable acts. Of course he was familiar with this process, despite what Mycroft implied. He needed to be in order to understand what made people do what they did. He wouldn't be able to call himself a decent scientist, otherwise. However, what forays he did have in his youth were hazy, fumbled affairs at best. It was easy to come to the conclusion that he could do without the whole ordeal, and label himself as being above such pedestrian urges deeming that sex was not worth the short-lived euphoria those chemicals provided. Besides, if he ever did desire that particular gratification, there was always cocaine that garnered similar results that were just as effective.

At least, that was what he told himself.

If Sherlock Holmes was ever a man who was honest with himself, he would admit that the real reason he abstained was due to the fact it was absolutely terrifying. The sheer vulnerability that came with physical intimacy was unsettling in the most extreme simply because he was in his absolute basest form; no more intelligent than a wild animal, subsumed by the demands of his transport. It also became nigh impossible to hide behind any façade he may have made for himself, the intensity all encompassing until it shattered his carefully constructed walls. Because in the throes of something that frenzied, that consuming, his partners always saw him for what he really was; a sociopath. _A Freak._ And in the end, it was this that he feared; the look in their eyes that he saw so frequently staring back at him from mirrors and panes of glass. A confirmation born of hatred and disgust.

But Sherlock Holmes is rarely honest with himself.

"So…" Jane starts, and Sherlock closes his eyes. (Here it was then.) "About all that in there," she says gesturing vaguely behind her as if the Palace was still retreating in the distance.

"Yes?" Sherlock says tersely. He's suddenly livid with her. This was _Jane._ She was supposed to be the exception to the rule of all things dull and ordinary. Why, _why_ did she insist on debasing herself as a common gossip? Was it really that important?

"Girlfriend, huh?" she says.

Sherlock's anger derails so suddenly, it leaves him blinking against the vacuum of vitriolic words he had waiting at the ready. He has to scramble, rewinding the reel in his mind to figure out what she's talking about.

_'And Mr. Holmes the younger. I will confess, I thought you'd be taller.'_

_'I take the precaution of a good coat and a short girlfriend.'_

Of course — _of course_ — this is the salient detail she chooses to focus on. Oh, Jane. Oh, simple, wonderful Jane. He chuckles to himself, and the chuckles turn into a true, full-bodied laugh born out of sheer relief more than anything.

"Is that really so ridiculous?" Jane says mock-offended, a hand over her heart. She giggles alongside him, until they are both breathless and leaning into each other for support.

"No. It's not," Sherlock says a moment later, quieting a little as he properly thinks over the turn of events.

"Hm," Jane says, a smile still on her lips as she turns to look out the window. She doesn't say anything more, however, and for this he is grateful.

Instead, she takes his hand in hers, the action alone speaking louder than words ever could, and he squeezes her fingers back so strongly it must be uncomfortable for her, but she doesn't make a move to pull away.

After a moment, she suddenly turns to him, realisation sparking in her tone. "Hey. How did you know about the smoking?"

"The evidence was right under your nose, Jane. As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?" she says.

Sherlock merely laughs his dark laugh, the weight of the crystal ashtray securely hidden against his breast.

"Observe _what?"_ she repeats, tugging his hand.

He smirks, refusing to say anything much to her annoyance. She would simply have to wait for Christmas for her illicit Palace souvenir. Afterall, two could play at that game.


End file.
